Tea Time
by McMuffinDragon
Summary: Two perfectly respectable people enjoying afternoon tea.  England and Igiko


At precisely three minutes to four o' clock on the third Saturday of the month, there would be a soft knock at Arthur Kirkland's front door. On this Tuesday, just like every Tuesday, the Englishman was putting scones in the oven when the knock came. As always, he hustled to the door, hanging his apron on a peg along the way. He opened the door for his guest, a woman his own height with a pair of modest ponytails and red framed glasses that made her green eyes pop.

"Alice," the man said with a tone of polite surprise, "please come in."

"Good afternoon, Mister Kirkland," she said as she stepped inside. He eyed the tin in her hands. "I've brought biscuits," she lifted the lid to show a dozen somewhat burnt lumps of dough. He smiled politely and led her to the parlor, as per routine.

There was a small circular table sitting by the window with two chairs on either side of it. "I'll go get the tea," Arthur smiled, turned from the room, leaving his companion alone. Alice put her tin down on the table and proceeded to look at Arthur's bookshelves, just as she did every week. There was rarely anything new. Arthur had his classics, his Shakespeare and Keats, and his more modern literature, his Gaiman and Rowling; Alice had nearly the exact same collection in her own home. If she saw anything new, she would leaf through the book, but this week was just the same.

Arthur returned with a tea tray which he set on the table. They took their seats; Alice with her back to the window because she didn't like the sun in her eyes and Arthur across from her because he didn't mind the light.

"How have you been, Alice?" The Englishman asked as he poured tea for his guest, two sugars with a splash of milk.

"I've been well," she replied, taking the cup and saucer with a smile, "Rather busy with Parliament, but that's nothing out of the ordinary." She paused to take a sip. "And yourself?"

"Same, same," Arthur replied, pouring his own cup, milk no sugar. "Keeping fair international relations the best I can." Alice smiled with an understanding nod. He offered her a scone, which she took and proceeded to spread strawberry jam on.

"Tell me, Arthur," the Englishwoman said as she did this, "how is the world these days?" She spoke as though 'the world' was some sort of code.

"Fraying at the seems as always," her companion replied with a dark humor.

"Naturally," she smirked. They sipped in silence with the occasional crunch of a burnt scone. Sipping her second cup, Alice said, "I see you moved your roses to the front of the house."

"Oh yes," Arthur replied, "They weren't getting much sunlight back in the garden, plus they're such beautiful flowers, I wanted to show them off."

"Of course," she turned and looked at the lush bush under the window, "they're coming along beautifully." The conversation continued to Alice's garden and the troubles she was having with her petunias. "It's simply raining too much," the Englishwoman lamented, "they can't take root when the ground is so wet all the time."

"Hmm, have you dug any irrigation trenches?" he asked, taking one of the biscuits from the tin.

"Well yes, but sometimes the ground is so soft, it oozes back and does nothing."

"I had the same problem," Arthur nodded, "what you do is get some small stones and line the walls of the trench with them. That holds it up enough to gather water."

The third cup was poured; making conversation, Arthur said, "I quite like your skirt," referencing the garment he could no longer see under the table, "is it new?"

"Oh thank you," the Englishwoman glanced down at the red and gray plaid skirt, "yes it is. Alicia made me buy it when she dragged me along to go shopping." She pulled on the fabric, barely getting the garment to stretch below her knees. "I think it's entirely too short."

At this point, Arthur leaned over a bit and looked at his friend's legs under the table. "Nonsense," he scoffed, sitting up straight again. "It's perfectly fine."

"Not for professional meetings!" the woman snapped sharply with an astonished look.

"Of-Of course not," he agreed, embarrassed for the both of them, "that would be disgraceful."

"She keeps trying to get me to dress like this," Alice scoffed, "I'm too old fashioned, she says."

"There's nothing wrong with being old fashioned," Arthur assured her as he set his cup and saucer down. "Alicia doesn't know what she's talking about." They shared a knowing look about their respective Americans before he offered her another scone.

When the teapot was drained by the fourth cup, the pair had run out of gardening tips and current events to talk about. "So, did you see the last episode?" Alice asked, tapping her fingers on the tabletop.

"Mm, yes," Arthur replied, swallowing a chunk of scone and nodding.

There was a pause while she waited for him to maybe say something else. "Well, what did you think?"

"Are you trying to get me to say that I love Matt Smith?" Arthur asked with a playful smile. He took a slow sip of his tea.

"Don't you?" She pipped back. "He's simply adorable."

"Yes, I suppose," the Englishman replied, "I still think he's a bit young, you know?" Alice rolled her eyes at his tired old criticism. "He's no Peter Davison." Arthur insisted.

"Of course," Alice nodded with a little smile, "of course."

At precisely seven minutes past five o'clock, Alice took her leave with the unspoken understanding that she would return next month and her tin of biscuits-completely untouched, just as always. Arthur stood at his door and watched her go down the walk and away toward the tube station a couple blocks away. The Englishman wore a content grin as he placed the parts of the tea set back on the tray and returned them to the kitchen. It was simply delightful to have a friend just like himself.


End file.
